The Foliage of Speech
Words frame her face like fall leaves—
Some are green, still full of life,
Others are dry and brown.
They drift against her jawline, caught
In the quiet currents
Of breath and hesitation.
The green ones cling:
Tender promises, unfinished confessions
That still smell of summer rain.
The brown ones rattle when she speaks,
Edges curled, brittle enough to crumble
Under the slightest weight of memory
Old arguments, worn-out courtesies,
Griefs she has swept into tidy piles for years.
Between the living sap and the brittle husk,
An ember glow holds:
The copper syllables of truth,
Warm enough to survive the frost,
Waiting for a wind brave enough
To strip the branches bare.
She lets the dead phrases fall into the dirt
To feed what comes next:
Life, or slow death.
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